Then Lord, O Lord, give unto me Thy strength; I know Thou wilt, for Thou hast promised it: Omnipotent, Thy name; and love, Thine attribute!

G.o.d in Nature.

We see our Father's hand in all around; In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow, In leafy wood, on gra.s.sy-covered ground, In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow.

And when we see the light'ning's flash, and hear The thunder's roar, majestically grand, A heavenly voice says, "Christian, do not fear, 'Tis but the working of thy Father's hand."

Reflections of a Jacobite.

Mourn, mourn, ye spirits of the brave, for glories pa.s.sed away; Mourn that the sceptre of your king should own a stranger's sway; Mourn that the crown, which graced his brow by sovereign right divine, Should e'er in regal mockery adorn an upstart line.

But mourn the more that those, who boast your blood within their veins, To such reproaches should submit while any drop remains, That those, whose names are heroes' names, transmitted from the free, The subjects of a foreign lord, in cherished chains should be.

Oh! for the days when life was naught except for what it prized!-- When virtue, honour, truth, and right inspired and advised!-- When men such loyalty and love to king and country bore!-- The grand old days of chivalry!--alas! they are no more!

The Oath of the French Loyalist.

I swear by the holy Virgin, I swear by her Son divine, I swear by the throne of the Mighty, I swear by the hope that is mine; I swear by the youth and innocence, By the beauty that has been, I swear by the sacred ashes, By the blood of the martyred queen.

That I will avenge the outrage, So infamous, vile, and base, The brutal and foul inhumanity, That darkens my land with disgrace; Or meet like a n.o.ble gentleman The fate that my sovereign has met, And die for my country's honour, For my queen,--Marie Antoinette.

Scotland: A Jacobite's Lament.

Where are those days, O Caledon, So glorious and bright, In which thy star resplendent shone With pa.s.sing l.u.s.trous light?

Alas! alas! those happier days Are shrouded in the past, Thy glory was like that of Greece, Too bright it shone to last.

Where are those knightly heroes bold, Those champions of the right, That bore the shield and couched the lance So valiant in the fight?

Whether for king and country's weal In freedom's cause they strove, Or courted glory and renown To win their lady-love.

The Wallace n.o.bly lived and died To save his land from shame, The royal Bruce as n.o.bly fought Her freedom to reclaim.

How would their generous hearts have mourned Could they have pierced the veil, And, peering into future years, Have read thy woful tale!

Then patriots raised the royal flag Around the n.o.ble Graemes, And dyed the heather with their blood For Scotland and King James.

A wreath of honour n.o.bly won Encircled then thy brow; How is that garland, once so green, So sadly faded now?

Now mercenary l.u.s.t hath ta'en The place of chivalry, And that devoted Faith of yore Is gone for bigotry.

What wonder then that to my eye The tear will sometimes start?

What wonder that the clouds of grief Hang heavy o'er my heart?

The Orphan Maid of Glencoe.

NOTE:--The tale is told a few years after the ma.s.sacre of Glencoe, by a wandering bard, who had formerly been piper to MacDonald of Glencoe, but had escaped the fate of his kinsmen.

I tell a tale of woful tragedy, Resulting from that fearful infamy; That unsurpa.s.sed, unrivalled treachery, That merciless, that beastlike butchery.

Upon the evening calm and bright, That followed on the fatal night, Just as the sun was setting red Behind Benmore's sequestered head, And weeping tears of yellow light, That, streaming down, bedimmed his sight, As he prepared to make his grave Beneath the deep Atlantic wave; I stood and viewed with starting tears The silent scene of glorious years, And thought me on my former pride, As when I marched my chief beside, Before my clansmen strong and bold-- Returning to our mountain hold, Victorious in the b.l.o.o.d.y close, And weighed with spoils of vanquished foes-- And filled the rocky glens around With peals of wild, triumphant sound.

But when I saw the b.l.o.o.d.y stains, And gazed upon the black remains, And thought upon my murdered chief, For rage I quick forgot my grief; And deeply vowed of vengeance then Upon the cursed Campbell men.

But then, alas! how vain my vow!

Where were Lochaber's warriors now?

When thus to bitter grief returned, Adown the valley I discerned A figure, and my fading eye A female form could just descry, Who onward came in fleet career, Swiftly as speed the frighted deer.

Her gait and garb so light and wild Bespoke the maid the mountain's child; Her auburn tresses waved behind, Bespread luxuriant on the wind; And from her soft and deep blue eye, In colour like the midnight sky, There beamed a clear and beauteous light As from the blue of northern night; And to my side young Janet ran,-- The pride and flower of the clan.

With direful thoughts and faces dazed We one upon the other gazed.

Nothing she spake, but turning 'round In silence sought the c.u.mbered ground.

A bitter cry the maiden gave As she approached the open grave; And as among its ways she went, She wailed this mournful, wild lament.

Where, where is the beauty that once I could scan?

And where is the power and pride of my clan?

Ah! gloomy to-day is the vale of Glencoe!

And the house of Ian Abrach is humbled and low.

The bright spot of my childhood is reft of its light!

Dark, dark are the scenes it presents to my sight!

And the homes of its people have shared in its fate, And its children are murdered through malice and hate.

Yes, the warm Highland heart, that had prompted the host With the other to vie in regaling them most, By the hand of the stranger, the wolf in the fold, When the feasting is over lies lifeless and cold.

And the youth that had cheerfully led in the chase, Whose mind never dreamed of dishonour so base, And who weary that night had retired to rest, Awoke with the treacherous steel in his breast.

And the damsel, bewildered with witcheries wove, Elated with flattery, feted with love, In the height of her maidenly beauty and joy, Having lain down to dream, was awakened to die.

And not even the babe that reposed on the breast In its innocent peace was permitted to rest.

Prophetic and awful, the curses of guilt, Are the cryings of children whose blood has been spilt!

And there lies the chieftain, beloved and revered, His rule it was just, nor in conflict he feared; He was butchered at night by the villainous foe, And discoloured with blood in his couch in the snow.

My father! my father! Why here dost thou lie?

Arouse thee, dear father, arouse thee, 'tis I!

Why dost thou not answer? My G.o.d! it is so!

And his lips are as cold and as white as the snow.

Thou wilt lead not again in the field or the chase, Nor clasp thy dear Janet in loving embrace.

Ah! dreary and barren life's desert to me!

Kind heavenly Father, O take me to Thee.